The Gen-X Mother

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 I don’t know if it is because we have entered the month of May, with all the undue end-of-the-school-year stress that suddenly rushes in at 10:01 pm on April 30^th. I don’t know if it is the added layer of a senior prom and graduation profiled on the horizon. I don’t know if it is the effects of perimenopause and the bad case of ADHD that seems to have befallen me since we moved back from France.

Whatever the reasons, I have found myself shaking my head in disbelief and ranting about “those young parents” several times a day, over the past few weeks. Which probably says more about my own age and season in life, than about their own hopeful, charming parental energy.

But whoever is right or wrong, what my own private observations tell me is that anxiety is high among privileged millennials. Those young moms want the absolute best for their children, and they want it now. They also seem genuinely terrified that something upsetting could happen to their offspring. Like being mildly uncomfortable, or scared, or wet, or cold, or hungry for more than a few seconds.

My seven-year-old just went on a school trip for a little more than forty-eight hours, and concerned looks were exchanged starting in September. “Is yours going?”, they would ask, as if we really had a choice. “They really are quite young”, they would add. “I’ve never spent more than one night away from my kid”, they would say. And the truth is, I haven’t either. But I have sent three other children to summer camp for four weeks, starting when they were eight or nine. And I, myself, spent three weeks a year, with my public-school classmates, in a beautiful Loire Valley château that was property of my parent’s city council school. Yes, what Americans call “socialism” can truly have its perks. Starting in Kindergarten, I was away from my family for more than twenty days, and loved every minute of it, every time. When you’re an only child growing up in a very quiet house with few distractions, being with friends in a rambunctious environment for that long can be utterly delightful, and frankly lifesaving. At least, it was for me.

So, rightly or wrongly, I have always encouraged these kinds of experiences for my children, and the notion that a field trip could be somewhat traumatic for a child is completely bewildering to me.

I understand, in retrospect, why I had to cancel the ambitious Legoland birthday plan I had for that same son last June.

Minutes after I sent the invitation, there had been a message on WhatsApp.

“I have a few questions about the party”, it started.

Cold sweat went down my spine as I suddenly remembered that I did not live in Paris anymore. This was not hands-off parenting territory. And I had suggested taking six children between the ages of six and seven to Legoland in – gasp – two different Uber XLs.

I knew exactly what I was in for and instantly regretted my idea.          

Indeed, there were questions. About transportation, of course. But also about the plan once in Legoland. Would the children be running around the different rides? No, I had booked a party package which involved the children making Legos in a secure room for most of the time. Would there be staff on hand? Yes, there would be. Something I had not thought about: Would the children be served nut-free food?       

We live in New York City, and children’s food has been nut-free for as long as I have been a mother. Which is almost seventeen years. So, I was surprised that it would even be a question. But it was. I dutifully answered all inquiries, however, and thought I was home free.         

But the next day, there was a phone call.

One of the mothers had taken time out off her busy law-partner-day to ask me directly if the means of transportation to the party could be changed. Her child, you see, was prone to car sickness, and even a 20-minute Uber ride was risky. If the train was not an option, I was not to worry. The child would simply not attend the party.

All it took after that, was another Whatsapp inquiry, and I was OUT.

After spending more time than I should have checking MetroNorth schedules and coordinating bus schedules from the train station to the amusement park, I decided that my own peace of mind was more valuable than my pride.

The Legoland plan was cancelled, and a slightly depressing Lego/Coding venue in Queens was found. Legoland was undoubtedly going to be more fun. But it was apparently full of dangers I had failed to properly assess.

This year, I went straight for a safe plan, where transportation will not be my responsibility. I am already mentally listing everything that could go wrong, however. Not with the children, but with the mothers.            

This is not to say that I am not an anxious mother myself. Anxiety has become a significant problem in my life, in fact. But I guess I have been directing it towards my oldest son, this year. For my own survival, I need to take it easy with the younger ones.

So, forgive me if I internally roll my eyes when you tell me about Junior’s rejection from the local Little League team, or seek my agreement when complaining about the quality of the English substitute teacher, and sharing your intention to report it to the head of school. Tougher rejections will be in the books as your children grow up, and the substitute is here because the regular teacher has cancer. It is time we all take a collective deep breath.